A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing

by Jessie Tu

  A security guard approaches us and asks if I’m alright.

  I decide to do what I’ve always done. Let go of the body. Let it do what it wants to do.

  We walk through double doors, accompanied by the security guard.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Sandra assures him. ‘Thank you for your concern.’ She gestures for him to go.

  I sign in at a table manned by a middle-aged woman in a lace top. She smiles, then says to Sandra, ‘You’ll have to wait here. I’ll take you in when we’re ready for you.’

  The woman stands and leads me to a practice studio. Inside, alone, I unzip my case. I reach out and run my finger over Monkey’s nose; the black beads of his plastic eyes, his stitched-on mouth; wide and permanently smiling. Like he is always deflecting the unanswerable things I ask him in my private moments. Am I going to fuck this up? Monkey smiles. He does not judge.

  I start with scales, bow exercises, stretch my arms and legs. I focus on my fingers, the sound stored in audio memory. Implanted in my skin. My muscles know what to do. For a moment, all I can see is Mark’s face. The triangular lights on his chest when he lies in bed. The intensity of the image distracts me. I push through it by playing louder, pressing it away.

  After a while, the woman comes to get me. I follow her to the main hall.

  The huge swinging doors open automatically, activated by a sensor, and I walk in, feet soft on the shiny floorboards, my eyes squinting against the glare of the stage lights.

  The panel is seated behind a long table at the end of the stage. A man in a blue collared shirt introduces his colleagues then himself. Jennings. He looks exactly the same.

  A spotlight illuminates the black stand. I walk towards it steadily, eyes forward.

  For a few moments, the visuals in my head shimmer into something like a fantasy. I imagine the people on the panel taking off their glasses, turning to each other, unzipping their pants and giving each other head, inserting a finger, an erection, staring at each other’s arseholes for signs of anal bleaching or waxing. I imagine them fucking like horses. Slurping, slapping. Flesh on flesh and chairs squeaking. Three, four bodies colliding.

  They greet me with smiles, the ordinary mannerisms of audition etiquette.

  Lips clenched; my arms heavy by my side.

  ‘When you’re ready.’

  I concentrate on the sound of my metronome. Drummed into my bones. Eyes blink, draw breath. Exhale slowly. Inhale.

  ‘I’ll start with the excerpts.’ My voice sounds constrained, like there’s something under my tongue.

  They ask for four of the twelve excerpts.

  I operate as I always do, hands stilled by the calm resolve I’ve learned to perform. Fingers braced in a tight grip around the fingerboard. Then, relax.

  It happens like magic. My body becomes, momentarily, a thing that does not belong to me at all. When I’m in motion, channelling the melodies of men who have died long ago, I’m suspended in time, like an aerial surfer gliding through space, undiminished by gravity. I am at once beheld to the notes of each frequency written on the page, and utterly free, consumed by a gracious state of being.

  When I finish, they ask me to choose a fifth and final excerpt to play.

  I press my lips together, then open them quickly. ‘I don’t know; I can do any of them.’

  ‘We’d like to hear your choice,’ Jennings says, then adds, ‘Please.’

  I decide on the Mozart. His music shows the best of me. Mechanical, clean, flawless. It is my job; I have done it so well for so long. As I play, the memory of that day, the rehearsal, the moment I had with Jennings, all of that surfaces to my consciousness like bits of dead coral floating up to the surface of the sea. As I’m playing Mozart, my life becomes ahistorical; for a few minutes, I am a descendant of his geniuses.

  I end on the double stop, bow pointing towards the stage floor, then look up at the lights above.

  They bring in Sandra. She smiles as she takes her seat. I realign myself so that I’m facing her side on. I keep the f-holes of my violin pointing to the panel.

  ‘I’ll do the Brahms Sonata,’ I announce.

  Sandra rolls her shoulders and waits for my cue. I tilt the scroll of my violin towards the ceiling, place my jaw onto the chin rest.

  The first movement is momentous, rough. Sandra’s piano intro rips through the hall. She is confident. She is unapologetic. I come in a few bars later. We fly through the first movement flawlessly, then the second. I forget the ease with which all of this comes. And then there are moments I remember. My mind flicks on and off.

  At the end of the third movement, something extraordinary happens. On a busy descending passage, my fingers feel as though they’re about to slip off the fingerboard. I think I’m about to lose my place and I want to stop, I’m compelled to stop and start over, but I can’t. I close my eyes and let my fingers take over. My palms are slick, high with adrenaline. I can feel that rapid wildness gathering at my navel, then rising to my chest.

  I am fifteen again. A fear that grips my shoulders, paralyses me into a state of hellish panic. It returns like a simmering heartburn, then dissipates just as fast when I realise I’ve always known what to do. There is no fear. Only the shock of finally knowing how inevitable all this is.

  A hushed silence falls over the hall.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ someone calls.

  I stop and look at my fingers. The calluses, normally hard, have burst, leaving damp layers of skin peeling off, half attached. It feels like I’ve plunged my fingertips into a bowl of razor blades.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  I have finished, somehow, and everything is still again. I see Sandra nodding at the piano. She is beaming.

  I feign confidence. The sharp pain is replaced by a numbness I thought had left me years ago. Today, it saves me.

  The panel dismiss Sandra and indicate a chair for me. I sit, legs crossed at the ankles, posture straight, violin on my lap.

  ‘Why are you the ideal candidate for this exchange?’ one of the panel members asks. He’s tapping his pen on his temple.

  I take my time in answering. I always take my time.

  ‘I’m a good player.’

  They chuckle.

  The man who’d asked the question says, ‘Yes, but everyone who auditions is a good player. What makes a Philharmonic player stand out?’

  I smile.

  ‘Well, I remember rehearsing with them when I was fifteen—’

  ‘That’s right, you had a big concert with us in 2008?’

  ‘I did. But I had a nervous breakdown. I’ve since recovered from that.’

  I scan their faces. One of them looks down at a sheet in front of him, writes something.

  ‘What is your favourite performance by the Philharmonic?’ a woman asks; she’s the only woman on the panel.

  I had not expected this question, but immediately, I know how to answer. A year before the end of my career, I’d been touring the East Coast of the US, giving small salon recitals. Banks had talked to a few people and had managed to arrange for me to spend a day in New York accessing the archives of the Philharmonic’s past performances.

  ‘Sarah Caldwell’s 1975 take on Lili Boulanger’s “Faust et Helene”.’

  The woman turns to the man on her left, her eyebrows raised. I can see I have impressed them. Jennings folds his arms.

  She turns back to me. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘It’s not widely performed. I like smaller, quieter pieces. Pieces history has forgotten. It’s for three voices. I’m not usually someone who seeks out vocal repertoire but a teacher of mine played it for me once. She loved French romantics. And Lili wrote this for her sister, Nadia. Of course, you all know this.’

  ‘I don’t actually. Tell me more.’

  I inhale and scan the panel, reading for boredom. Jennings leans forward and places his chin on a hand.

  ‘It’s based on a poem by this poet, Eugène Adenis. He based it on the second part of Goethe’s Faus
t.’

  ‘You’re a reader?’

  ‘I studied literature.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  She’s firing questions without pause. I think it might be a trick.

  ‘I guess I needed the stories to help me be a better person and then, maybe, a better musician.’

  The woman nods, expressionless.

  ‘Do you have any other interests, besides music?’

  Another panellist speaks. ‘You’ve played with Americans?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  I chew the tip of my tongue. ‘I think Americans are great. They’re flamboyant. I could learn a lot from them.’

  ‘We’re flamboyant? What makes you say that?’

  Porn. I want to say: Americans do it best. I want them to know what I’m really thinking, because then they can answer their own questions. I glance around for somewhere to deposit my gaze.

  ‘It’s something invisible. The energy, maybe.’

  ‘Energy?’

  My breath fractures. I wait for someone to say something, to help me articulate what I mean, but they are silent. I fumble with words, I am incoherent. The lights burn my cheeks and the top of my skull.

  A man clears his throat. ‘No matter, thank you very much.’

  I replicate the motions of a defeated athlete. Hang my head. Move slowly. I make it all the way to the exit without tripping; a small light inside me, clicking off.

  34

  Two nights later, I lead the ‘Trout’ ensemble for the conductor’s seventieth birthday.

  In the green room, the pianist asks me about the audition.

  ‘Not good,’ I laugh.

  He gives me a sympathetic smile, which makes me want to jab my bow into my mouth. But I tell him thanks as I’m walking towards the stage door. Patrons and board members are seated between rows E and J towards the centre. In the wing, the five of us take turns peeking out to the audience.

  ‘Looks like they’re all here,’ the cellist says.

  The viola player and I exchange quick grins. We are dressed in matching emerald gowns and black heels. There’s a split in our skirt, strategically designed for maximum thigh exposure when we’re seated. The men wear grey suits.

  ‘Okay, Jena.’ The bass player looks at me. ‘Any words of wisdom from our leader?’

  I nod, look at the floor in front of me. ‘Right, let’s give them a good show.’

  They smile encouragingly, wait for more, but I’m already walking onto the stage.

  The applause thrums in my ears.

  We stand in a single line, collecting the loud eruption from the audience. I step forward in front of the empty chairs. We bow, gesture to the chief conductor who is sitting in the middle of row E, dressed in a black suit, red bow tie. He’s smiling ecstatically, nodding his head.

  We take our seats and the applause diminishes. The stage lights are exceedingly bright. Already, I can make out the particles in the air; small traces of dust.

  We make small adjustments. Chairs screech, weight on feet, check bow hairs. All eyes on me, a small lift of the scroll. We launch into the first movement.

  My fingers feel spright and responsive. I love this momentum, catching my breath on the higher registers. We play the five movements without rest. There is no interval. Between movements, I watch as the cellist extracts a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wipes his fingerboard. The fabric is flung across the black ivory, I see more particles fly, suspended in air. The last piece finishes with a counter-melody conflict between all the instruments. We flick our gaze from one instrument to another. I see drops of sweat collect across the cellist’s forehead as he sways violently beside me, like raindrops shifting sideways along a gutter.

  My melody soars above the accompanying lines and triumphs. Our bows fly into the air. We stop, statue-still. I relish those few seconds of transcendence, right after the end of a piece, before the boom of the audience’s applause.

  We rise and stand at the edge of the stage. Bow. I feel that old, whistling exhilaration return. The audience leaps out of their seats. After the fifth bow the viola player leans over and whispers, ‘Invite him up onstage.’

  My face burns in wild panic. Bryce had reminded me before the concert, but in the relief of finishing I’d forgotten. I place my violin on my chair and gingerly make my way down the stairs to the side of the stage, lifting my gown just enough to expose my ankles. I tread slowly to the chief conductor’s row. He is crab-walking past seated patrons. When he reaches me, he bends forward to press his lips to my cheek. I link my arm through his, and we walk up onto the stage. At the top of the steps, a stage crew hands him a microphone as he aims a soft, faint smile to the audience.

  His speech is long. Well-rehearsed praises and gratitude. When we finally step offstage, my hips feel misaligned. I’d been hyper-aware of maintaining good posture, feeling the gaze of more than two thousand eyes on me, constantly redistributing my weight from foot to foot. At the afterparty, former players and current players from the orchestra take turns talking to the conductor. I hang around the exit so I can make a quick departure. I have one beer, and then find an excuse to leave.

  When I arrive home after midnight, my phone buzzes. It’s Mark with a single request.

  I ignore his text and walk towards Val’s room to find the door open, lights off. I walk in and switch on the light. The room is neat, bed made, nothing loose scattered across the dressing table. As though the room is preparing for a new guest.

  A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the apartment door.

  ‘Why didn’t you reply?’

  Mark walks in and pushes me against the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was about to.’

  We move into my room, shuffling our feet slowly. He unbuckles his belt and I assume my position on the floor in front of him. He fucks my mouth, then lifts me up onto the bedside counter and clamps his chest against mine as I push against his legs, his eyes flicking between my genitals and neck, something convulsive and wild in the way he looks at me. He flips me over and takes me from behind, shaking my torso, legs hard against my hips. He stops suddenly, pulls out. I bend down to see red cascading down my legs. I have made a small pond of blood at my feet.

  ‘Christ, there’s a lot of blood,’ he says.

  ‘It’s the last day of my period,’ I say calmly.

  I want him to stop talking, to keep pounding, because it doesn’t hurt-hurt; it just hurts. He puts his hand on my lower back.

  ‘I’ve got blood all over my hands too.’ He walks into the bathroom. Runs the tap and washes his hands.

  I shuffle to the mirror, leaving a trail of red spots behind me. I turn to see red paws left on my lower back. I’ve never seen so much blood on my body. My own blood.

  35

  I wake from a violent dream. A car accident. My body dismembered. Bones exposed among a wrecked pile of metal and glass. Ligaments and blood. Open veins and crusted hair. I reach for Mark’s arm. He opens his eyes immediately, as though he’d been waiting for me to wake him. I tell him about the dream. Loose flesh and flowing blood. Limbless torso. Open wounds. He wraps my head inside a tight grip.

  ‘Stop talking.’

  I reach for my metronome on the bedside table. He pushes my hand away.

  ‘I’m here.’

  In the morning, I ask him why he won’t leave his girlfriend. He turns around and opens his mouth. I give him my full attention; I want to hear his reason. But then he closes his mouth and doesn’t say anything. In the shower, I suck on his cock for longer than I want and end up choking, coughing hard from the rush of water, cum blasting into my mouth. He bends down and slaps the side of my face. I look up at him. His eyes are black shadows. I am suddenly terrified by what I might do for him. Part of me reaches into that old self, the girl who only knew how to play the violin. The girl who had not yet discovered sex. Part of me wants to resuscitate her. Otherwise I might kill myself. He cups the back
of my skull and pushes his full length into my mouth. I relax into the motion, and let my bladder go. I pee on his feet. He lifts me up, bends me over. His cock is so large that at one point it feels as though I am being split open by a blunt carving knife, but I let him continue because he begins to make sounds like he’s about to come and I am relieved. It’ll soon be over. When he loses his grip, my head slams against the glass door and I feign unconsciousness. He gathers me up and lays me on the bed, still wet.

  Each time he returns from Melbourne, there’s a newness about him, a dark yearning I want to cling to.

  ‘Can you skip tonight?’ he asks as we are towelling ourselves dry.

  I shake my head.

  When he pushes me onto the floor, I tell him no. ‘I’ll be late again.’

  He adjusts my body so I am on all fours. A sharp pain slices my wrist. I wince, collapsing onto my side.

  We are both exhausted, but it seems nothing will satiate our hunger for each other’s flesh. I roll onto my back, wrap my arms around him and make red marks on his scapula. He presses down on me. I dig my nails deeper.

  In the bathroom, I switch on the light as he turns his back to me. I have accidentally created a masterpiece, red lines made with a thin brush. Lines that wobble. An artist with Parkinson’s. Cat marks and scratches, red whorls when he pushed deepest inside me. There are faint bruises, the shape of a single thumbprint for the times I lift my lips above his skin and bite into his flesh. He tells me he likes it when it hurts. I enjoy hurting him.

  ‘Take a picture,’ he says, raising his arms over his head—a young boy waiting for his mother to undress him. Afterwards, we study the picture together like it is anthropological evidence of an ancient tribe, a ritualistic painting, the symbol of an inexplicable deity. I make drawings of pleasure and pain on my lover’s body. Soon, the pigments will fade just like our love for each other. But the picture on my phone remains. A photographic document of a woman’s artistic abilities and a man’s ineluctable appetite.

  36

  He goes away for an entire week. I want him more when he is not around. A song spins in my head. I sing it over and over and over. Something about being talented at missing someone. About loving from afar.